


Adultery

by seekingmoonscapes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble Fic, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Pre-Mary, Pre-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 09:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9379121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekingmoonscapes/pseuds/seekingmoonscapes
Summary: Then there was John. John, the doctor; John, the soldier; John, the ordinary man – John, who should be so dull.





	

Sherlock Holmes stared blankly at the ceiling, his feet dangling over the end of the sofa and thinking of his adultery. In his defence, his wife had never been particularly faithful. She was always running off on adventures and leaving Sherlock to chase after her; flirting with anyone too, promising all her secrets to anyone fast enough to keep up. She was never dull though, Sherlock could get lost in her for days, but then she’d flitter away and leave weeks of endless drudgery and boredom in her wake.

But then there was John. John, the doctor; John, the soldier; John, the ordinary man – John, who should be so dull.

_Sheets twist beneath them, their free hands find each other and their fingers entwine, knuckles going white from the strength of their grasp because somehow they’re convinced, if they let go there will be no tomorrow._

A key clicked in the lock but Sherlock didn’t look away from the ceiling or move his fingers from where they were steepled beneath his chin; let John think he’d disappeared inside his own head for a while. He listened to the sounds of homecoming; John taking off his jacket and slipping off his shoes; padding into the kitchen, picking up the kettle and turning the tap, he could see each action without even having to look. Water rushing from the tap; banging into the metal sink and then gurgling as it fills up the kettle. Then it slowed; a rush to a stream, a stream to a trickle, then finally a trickle to just a drip, drip…drip. Then kettle clacked down on its plastic base and the flick of the switch is a click.

John shuffled back out of the kitchen, stopped by his chair but didn’t sit; he was wringing his hands in the corner of Sherlock’s eye and Sherlock couldn’t __not__  look at him.

His hair had grown a little from the sharp military crop that had given him away all those months ago; it was dishevelled, swept mostly to the right – not style John wore voluntarily, most probably wind. A sharp gust of air travelling in one direction – from a tube then; the weather was barely breezy.  

His shirt was soft cotton, gentle on the skin and wouldn’t irritate the tell-tale bruise just peeking over the collar -

_He gasps into the hot, damp skin of John’s bared throat. He can’t think. Can’t. Concentrate. Sensation floods through his mind and he’s spiralling, round and round, logic slipping through his grasp - the tighter he tries to hold on, the faster it falls away … until John’s strong grip becomes the only thing worthwhile in the whole universe. Desperate, he bites down, latching on to something firm, solid, **real** and John keens beneath him, his fingers tightening and his wanton hips rolling, rocking, grinding. After that, all it takes is a name, moaned and breathless in his ear. _

John had been about to say something, a hesitant greeting most likely, but Sherlock’s sudden scrutiny had frozen him, his lips still parted round a half-formed word.

_Lips bruised red and swollen wrapping around the syllables of his name like they’re a prayer._

“John.” He barely recognised his own voice, rough and dark with want.

“Sherlock.” Whispered, reverent, even as John was stepping back towards the kitchen. “Wait. Let me...” John struggled with the words, tried to force them to somehow express everything he wanted to say, everything he didn’t. 

“I don’t date.” It was an automatic response. “I’m married-“

“-To your work, yes I know.” John cut through impatiently. He paused for a few seconds and then met his gaze steadily because John Watson didn’t run from anything. How could Sherlock not have been drawn to that? “Seems like a pretty open relationship.”

Sherlock was already checking the distance to the window before he was even fully aware of the thought, it took him a second to realise where it came from too, because he’d thought he’d killed his flight reflex years ago; thought it had died off from lack of use, like a limb denied of blood.

“Sherlock.”

“She can be a very fickle partner.” He agreed slowly, but he didn’t dare look up because his self-control was already in tatters and the last threads were fraying.

“Sherlock, look at me.” His voice was soft and deceptively calm, and Sherlock was drawn in again by this should-be-desperately-boring, painfully ordinary man.

(When did he stand up? When had he strode across the room until he was close enough to feel John’s breath flutter along his jaw?)

He thought John initiated it but it didn’t matter because then they were kissing, Sherlock pressing John hard against the wall, John crushing his hair in his fists as the world narrowed down to the war between their mouths. His own long fingers were out of control, desperate to map out every inch of the body beneath them as though it would disappear any second.

His heart was thrumming, like it was riding an overdose of adrenaline, the crest of a cocaine rush. His breaths broke free from his throat in ragged, broken pants and his legs were trembling beneath him like he’d been slamming through the streets of London all night on the tail of a particularly energetic opponent.

‘John; it’s just John.’ The mantra in his head circled like a carousel at a fairground, all bright lights and loud noise, but somehow disregarded like background static, there but unheeded. It wasn’t just John, it was __John Watson__  and, right then, he was everything.


End file.
